I’m looking at the cheap mobile I’ve bought as a stand-by for the Samsung seized by the police. It’s lying on the low occasional table beside the sofa. I have an overwhelming desire to phone McFaul, to touch base, to make sure he’s OK. He’s a man, I tell myself, of untold inner resources. No way would he walk into the woods with a shotgun and a handful of shells. Just a clue is all I need. Just one tiny moment to confirm that I’ve got this thing right, that he’s still alive.

I pick up the mobile. Without the number stored on the Samsung, of course, I’m helpless, but then I remember the paperwork from the Vodafone store in Exmouth. McFaul’s number will be there. I’m sure it will.

I spend a fruitless half hour going through the flat, cursing the police. They – or the MI5 people – have taken everything: my laptop, Malo’s iPad, an old tablet I still use from time to time, together with reams of bank statements, credit card records and sundry other documents. Then I remember my Peugeot in the car park downstairs. I have the dimmest memory of stuffing the Vodafone paperwork into a door pocket. I find the keys and clatter downstairs. My ninja friends, thank God, have ignored my car. And exactly where I thought, I find the Vodafone number.

I take the lift back to the top floor, hopelessly conflicted about making the call. In truth, my visit to the TACT suite has disturbed me more than I like to admit. The police I’ve learned to cope with, just, but the intelligence services are way scarier, and for that reason alone the last couple of days, absorbed in a French cop drama, have been a real blessing. It’s distanced me from the world of Budleigh Salterton, of MND, of the acrid tang of chemicals in the bareness of McFaul’s front room. Yet that same world has just paid me a visit, sparked fresh questions, stirred new fears, and I know myself sufficiently well to recognize what I must do.

Back in the flat, I key McFaul’s number into my new mobile. For a long moment, nothing happens. Then the number begins to ring. It goes on and on, and I’m about to hang up when the ringing stops and I hear a voice.

‘Who is this?’ Faint, but definitely McFaul.

‘It’s me. Enora.’ I hesitate a moment. ‘You’re OK? That’s all I want to know.’

‘I’m fine. Baking, but fine. Take care. And thanks for phoning.’ The line goes dead.

Baking? He’s alive. He’s somewhere hot. How did he ever get there without a passport? I’ve no idea. But, at least for now, he’s ahead of the game. That night, unusually, I sleep like a baby.

TWENTY-FOUR